#he looks so orange on my phone screen i thought it was a myth

[silliestofdragonets]

finally using a computer to draw he looks silly

[alldayangst]

lovebug (Tom Holland)

GIF is from gaybuckybarnes here on Tumblr. You can access my masterlist here. This was written for @worldoftom’s lolbrosgetsicktoochallenge. The prompt I had was: ‘Tom self diagnoses himself as sick. He’s got all the symptoms. He’s speechless, over the edge and just breathless. He never thought he’d get hit by the ‘love-bug’ again’. Inspired by the song Lovebug by Jonas Brothers!

A/N: Y/N is an assistant director on Cherry in this fic. This has a lot of Cherry (the movie) references but most are explained if you haven’t seen the film. Such as, it was filmed in Cleveland and Morocco, directed by Joe and Anthony Russo. Some scenes in this fic borrow from the movie & I’ve linked clips from the film if you’d like to listen/watch along. WC: 4K.

“Yeah, Mum, I’ve just got like the sorest throat at the moment.” Nikki’s picture cuts in and out on a scrambled screen on the South side of London, her husband’s hand periodically reaching out for her, rubbing her shoulder, then leaving the frame almost as quickly as it came in. Even through the low quality, the pixels dashing about his screen, Tom can make out his mother’s brows knitting together and can’t remove the feeling of utter guilt when he sees her grow redder and redder out of anger, concern and confusion for her son. “But I’ve got Harry here with me.” Harry waves from behind his brother, his trusty mug swapped for a Phoenix Coffee Cup in his spare hand, just to get a taste of the States.

Tom reckons that's why he’s sick. He barely drinks coffee on the other side of the pond, and would bet good money that an at home PG Tips would beat America’s swankiest coffee joint any day. But now, he’s betrayed his usual routine and his body’s all out of whack and his throat is hoarse, he’s breathless even at times.

Harry shoots his mum a half smile to comfort her, but he doesn’t know what it's like to be a mother, and his and Tom’s mouth both form an ‘O’ when Nikki begins to type so hard her screen jolts and Tom swears she’s put a dent in it. “You know what? I’m going to give them a piece of my mind, Tom! They’re overworking you!” Nikki looks intensely to find her baby boy in drug-addled eyes and his jungle of curls on his newly shaven head. She guesses it becomes easier when Tom pushes his face halfway into the screen and pleads like the child he’ll always be to her, “Please, please Mum! I can’t have any days off. Under any circumstances, I need to finish this film!”

Tom turns to his younger brother for help. “Tell her, Harry!”

And as little brothers do best, Harry spills the beans as soon as Tom’s phone is in clutch. “Tom’s fallen in love with the first A.D., Y/N.”

Nikki immediately loses her frown, knowing how love can knock Tom off his feet and blow all the wind out of him. Tom’s father, Dom, re-enters the frame to match Nikki’s grin. He never misses an opportunity to tease. “Oo, caught a case of the love bug, have you?”

Harry has to whip the phone around to dodge Tom’s protesting arms reaching for it again. “Don’t listen to Harry. I’m not in love. I just like Y/N.”

“A lot.” Harry mutters. Tom’s family doesn’t budge any further, knowing how bad Tom was hurt after his last relationship. They weren't sure when the love bug would come back to bite him again. So after they all shared a knowing look, Harry handed Tom his phone back. “I’ll keep you updated. Bye, Mum.”

It all started five weeks ago. Tom, at 24, was beginning to feel like love was trudging up a high hill he couldn’t come down from, where every beat of heart was feeling like an ache on an open wound.  Tom had yet to meet a lover to prove distance makes the heart grow fonder, finding himself in six month long entanglements and illusions of love before things inevitably went sour.

He’d say, perhaps, you were the closest thing to the real deal. The problem was, he didn’t know if you liked him back.

“When life was beginning, I saw -”

“When life was-”

“When life was be-fuck!”

“When life was beginning, I saw you.”

Tom could make a picture book out of the day he first met you. He remembers how your hair looked that day, the speckles of genuinity in your eyes, how your ear-to-ear smile seemed to be a mirror because every time he saw you from then on, he brandished the same beam. He recalls how his eyes went low as he dropped his script to his lap and stared at your lips, so soft and kissable, as you repeated his words back to him: “When life was beginning, I saw you.” Then you chuckled softly as Tom waited patiently for his head and his heart to return to him.

“I’m sorry. I’m dyslexic. I have a bit of trouble reading.”

“It’s cool, I'm the first A.D. That’s what I’m here for.”

You rubbed your hands on the back of your trousers, your mic jostling in your back pocket as you attempted to rid yourself of your nervous, sweaty palms.

“I’m Y/N.” You reached out for a shake only for Tom to cough loudly into his own hand. 

“Fuck! I’m so sorry! That wasn’t me trying to get out of your handshake. I- I-.” Tom looked at his hand for it had failed him for the first time in his life. His hand that had helped him up during handstands, being his crutch through cartwheels and backflips, but had decidedly run out of luck to be on the receiving end of Tom’s monstrous cough impending a handshake with someone his eyes just couldn’t look away from.

You laugh again. Your laugh sounds like melody, Tom muses. Awestruck, he wishes he could play it again, repeat it like a radio hit and never wash himself of the feeling he got when he heard your laugh for the first time.

“It’s all good. I’ll see you around.” You disappear from his trailer, likely on a venture to your own, when Joe and Anthony block his view of you walking away.

Anthony and Joe take on the ghost of you in Tom’s room, “Tom! The man, the myth and the legend!” Joe comes behind him to rub his newly hairless head. “We’re so glad you agreed to do this movie!” 

“Bummed that you’re not coming to the Browns game tonight, though.” Anthony remarks, throwing a football at Joe who sets it in his lap.

“Harry and I, we’re British, mate. We play football with our feet.”

Joe doesn’t know it then, but his next words are the beginning of the end for Tom. He rubs on his football and looks Tom in his eye when he poses, “It’s a shame ‘cause the whole crew’s going. First day of filming celebrations.”

“The whole crew?”

Anthony mumbles an ‘mhm’ as he picks up a framed photo of Tom and RDJ sitting pretty on Tom’s dresser, posing like father and son.

Tom’s usually self assured when he’s on set, but he’s hesitant to say this next improvised line. His voice trails off as he speaks. “Including Y/N?”

“Y/N?” Joe queries, with a smile that’s half scary and half comforting, and the butterflies in Tom’s stomach are begging him not to fuck this up and suddenly every second a word is not spoken feels like hours have passed and he might have ruined things before they’ve even started, gosh he just met you and-

Tom tries to play it cool. “I don’t- they’re cool.” Tom coughs again. “I mean, I don’t really know them but Y/N seems cool I guess.”

Anthony and Joe smile at each other, scrambling to exit. “Whole crew’s going, baby!” Joe beams.

“Please don’t tell Y/N I asked!” Tom shouts before they’re out of earshot.

“Yeah, yeah. Anthony, go long!”

A few hours later, Tom was sitting next to an unamused Harry, you on his left, foam fingers pointing every which way. 

“Are you a big football fan?” Tom asked, imposter syndrome creeping up on him. He had the best seats in the house, but knew not a thing about this sport he’d come down to watch. Meanwhile, crew and crowd alike sat themselves around you guys, cheering leaving throats raw for days to come and a tussle for a foam finger between Joe and Anthony leading to hundreds of sugary popcorn shells scattered on the stadium floor.

“I mean, I wouldn’t ever turn down the option to look at Odell Beckham Jr. Are you?” you replied.

Tom looked over to his brother who sat with his chin in his hand, lips pulled into a thin straight line as his rusty curls were blown about from the wind of brown and orange flags flown from fans behind him. “We could learn to love it.” Tom flashed you a toothy grin, unsure of where to guide the conversation next. He knew for sure that he wanted to keep talking to you, but his ego began putting up a fight, eager to show himself off if you’d have him in any way. Tom sighed. “Truth is, we have no fucking clue what’s going on.” Tom could hear the commentary about a player reaching the end zone, but they were all just words that went into one ear then came straight out of the other.

You giggled. “I have no idea either. We could make up our own rules if you want.”

Tom likes the way you think. He also likes the way you speak. He loves the way you laugh.

“You have a beautiful laugh.” 

You covered your mouth. “Oh, fuck, I hate my laugh!”

“I’d make you laugh a thousand times if I could.”

You pointed to the jumbo screen as Mayfield made a touchdown, unable to stop laughing from sheer nerves as you felt Tom’s hot, burning haze on you. An advert for Cleveland’s Own Phoenix Coffee flashed on the screen as you spoke. “We’ll make our own rules. Every time we see the quarterback pick up the ball, we’ll cheer.”

By the end of the night, Tom is speechless, breathless and over the edge of his chair in faux excitement and anticipation of the quarterback receiving the ball once again. 

“Another coffee?” The service worker asked.

“Yes please!” You and Tom both say in unison, pumped as the quarterback began circling around to collect the ball in open arms.

The footage of the game is cut abruptly as the camera points to a confused, solo Harry; Anthony and Joe are seen at the edge of the frame whispering suggestively and pointing towards Tom, the camera eventually capturing the superstar who looks back up at his own reflection. Poorly green screened hearts flood the screen and the camera pans to include you in the frame too. Tom looks on in horror when he realises what’s going on and how it could be too late, and turns to you.

“I promise I didn’t know this was going on. We don’t have to.” Tom panics. 

You hear him loud and clear, that you don’t have to, but your heart and eleven thousand people are telling you to kiss him otherwise. “Oh well. We should just do it.” you murmur, the bright pink ‘KISSCAM’ logo flashing in and out.

It doesn’t take more than a moment for the gap between you and Tom to close, for your face to get lost behind his, his lips pressing against yours, eyes closed, trusting each other to share your air. This was probably the first thing that night worth cheering for, howls and whistles erupting around you. 

Tom doesn’t understand American football, but he thinks that the best seats in the house could be anywhere next to you.

Harry’s on the phone to his twin brother, Sam, when you and the rest of the crew make it back to the hotel later on. “-Yeah, and Tom spent half the night with the first A.D. cheering and screaming at fuck all.”

The Cleveland Browns lost that night, but Tom remains none the wiser. He stood in the doorway as Harry continued to relay his day to Sam. “Oh, and Tom, Mum said to give her a call, eavesdropper.” He flicks Tom’s reddening nose before closing the door.

A week and a half later, Tom reckons that's why he’s sick. He never has the time anymore to attend ‘real’ football games back home, and he actually understands the game back in Britain. But now, he’s cheered at almost every given opportunity to impress you stupidly, and his chest and voice is suffering as a consequence.

You and Tom walked onto set with your pinkies intertwined, growing closer and closer by the minute, but Tom doesn’t miss how Ciara’s boyfriend visits set every day for her, doesn’t miss how they rub their nose together in this lovey-dovey affection he wishes he could bestow upon you.

The scene wasn’t working.

The crew was beginning to grow restless and Tom silently became more frustrated as the minutes went by and he was unable to get his lines right. He remembers how a week ago, it felt so easy. You were there to correct him when he stumbled upon his lines and you picked him up so effortlessly, a twinkling smile on your face. But then? Then you were different. Your eyes were scrunched up behind the lens of the camera and you were mumbling something to Anthony about how the sun was due to go down in Ohio soon so you needed to hurry along.

“Alright.” you announced. “Take five!”

And Tom was thankful, Ciara perched upon a swing for the scene they were filming, Tom dwindling the rope of the swing under his finger as her boyfriend approached her once again. “Hey dude, are you okay?”

Ciara looked at Tom with the same concern, hands finding home in her boyfriend’s nest of hair. “Yeah, Tom, are you okay?”

Tom coughed into his hand. “Yeah, guys, I’m good.”

“I think you’re coming down with a nasty cough.” Ciara muttered.

“Yeah. It’s you guys. You’re too cute. You make me sick.” Tom laughed humourlessly for a short while, wanting to be that adorable with someone, maybe not anyone, maybe just with you someday. Then Tom shook his head, a bitter feeling in his throat as he yawned. “It’s the Browns game. I was yelling and screaming every time a quarterback got the ball. Of course I’m a little unwell. I’ll be good as new in a few days though.”

Ciara already knew Tom wasn’t playing a man with the healthiest of habits, but she worried that Tom was getting this bad this early. “Maybe you should talk to the first A.D. about reducing shoot days from five to three?”

Tom didn’t like the prospect of seeing you less. “Yeah.” Harry had a clapperboard between his hands, leading Tom’s eyebrows to furrow as his brother yelled something about it being take 13. “Maybe.” 

Harry resumed to a new position in your chair, with you taking Harry’s place right across from Tom, a coffee waiting for him when the scene was over like Harry always did. Ciara’s boyfriend left the frame to watch supportively on the sidelines.

“Lights. Camera. Action!” Anthony called. “Time is money, you guys! Let’s try to get this one right this time.” 

They’d been over this already twelve times today.

“Hey, I’m really happy you’re here.”

Ciara read her line back. “Why’s that?” 

Tom could hear whispers of the crew, the sound guy glaring at them in case they were picked up in the scene, and he knew it had something to do with the fact that he couldn’t for some reason get the next line out all day. And that reason, unbeknownst to everyone, was because Tom couldn’t say something he didn’t mean - feeling like his heart was locked in a cage for which only you had the key. He looked past his co-star, Ciara, and up at you; feeling so close but you were far away, leaving him all day without anything to say. And overcoming his speechlessness and breathlessness, even in just that moment, he ran his hand over the rope to say, “Cause I like you. A lot.”

Ciara and the rest of the crew broke into a wide smile once Tom finally spoke his next line, but the only person Tom was focused on was you, who wasn’t smiling, but mouthing his words back to him.

Ciara breathed, “Shut up.”

And Tom’s sure to look you in the eye when he says, “I really do.”

When the filming for the day is said and done, Tom makes a beeline for you across the greenery. You hand over his coffee to him, “It’s a little cold now, but a warm hand is holding it.”

Tom quirks an eyebrow. “Are you inviting me to hold your hand?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“You swapped jobs with Harry, I saw.”

“Yeah, well. It’s good he gets to grips with the job now. You know, in case anything changes.” You pulled your phone out of your pocket. “I should probably give you my number. In case anything changes.”

“Oh no, yeah. Your number is?”

“216-XXX-XXX. Speaking of changes, I heard you’re trying to get your days reduced.”

“You were eavesdropping?” Tom looks at your face that bears no trace of guilt. “You’re just like me!” He pulls you close.

“Tom, if what happened today is because you’re working too much, I’m happy to reduce your time.”

“Nah, nah.” Tom sniffles, rubbing his nose on a jacket probably worth more than your life. “I’m just a bit sick, s’all. I’ll be fine.”

Two weeks pass and Tom’s no better. With the Cleveland game nearly a month ago, Tom has nothing to blame and as first A.D., you’re obligated to reduce his hours. Tom’s on the phone with his mother when you approach his trailer. 

“Don’t listen to Harry. I’m not in love. I just like Y/N.”

“A lot. I’ll keep you updated. Bye, Mum.” 

You’re so quick to skip happily back to your trailer that you miss Harry calling out to his brother, he’s his protector now that his mother was countries apart. “Tom?” Harry starts.

Tom mumbles an ‘mhm’, hoping Harry would make it quick as he sees you FaceTiming him. If only his mother could see him like this. He’d get to call her tomorrow and tell her he’d called you for the first time yesterday, he could hardly wait to utter, 'I've finally found the missing part of me’. Harry sighs as the FaceTime ringing is relentless. Tom’s eyebrows threaten to meet in the middle of his face as he clutches onto his phone.

“Tom.” Harry begins. “Y/N is giving up assistant director.”

Tom’s really not sure where Harry gets the source of his information from, but he’s sure this isn’t true. He thinks you’d tell him before his brother if you were leaving the film behind, leaving him behind.

The film is due to move filming to Morocco soon, and Tom’s well aware that not all film crew joins them when production moves abroad, but to Tom, you’re an extension of this movie universe. And Tom refuses to leave the memories of you in this filming cycle. “How’d you know?”

“I’m taking over.” Tom’s screen lights up with the glow of your call, and as bright as it is, as bright as you are, as bright as your smile surely is on the other end of the phone call, Tom’s in his deepest darkest feelings wondering how he fooled himself into thinking romance could go right for him this time. 

He’s going to Morocco. You’re not. You’re funny, smart, promising, beautiful. You’ll find someone good for you, a better pair by the time he’s back.

“That doesn’t mean it won’t work out, man.” Tom sulks in his bed, the light from your constant calls bleeding through his bed sheets. “I just wanted to warn you.” Tom nods, screaming into his pillow. Harry decides that’s his cue to leave, a glimmer of light from outside seeping through the crack of the door as Harry escorts himself. Tom musters all his might and courage to reluctantly answer your phone, the ear-to-ear grin he knows so well greeting him once again.

Suddenly, he forgot how to speak. Hopeless, breathless, couldn’t you see that?

“Tom?” You call out his name a few times before cutting straight to the point. “Do you like me?”

Tom shifts slightly but not enough to show that he’s alarmed. “Huh? Yeah, I like you.”

He sits up, but doesn’t reciprocate the outrageous smile you wear like a heart on your sleeve. Tom’s eyes are sunken, dark circles forming under his eyes where he and his disturbed character become one. You suddenly remember why you shouldn’t have run away so fast, perhaps Tom was overworking himself. He continues, “But I’m an emotionally unavailable hopeless romantic. So I wouldn’t waste your time on me.”

Tom can’t help the hurt in his heart when he sees your smile drop so suddenly, knowing it was earnest. “Tom, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, life is unfair. And I’m gonna quit while I’m ahead. We wouldn’t work out. And I like our friendship now. We should stay that way.”

You’re not convincing when you nod rapidly, not letting Tom see your face as you play with your fingers to avoid his gaze. “Yeah, I agree.” You’re much less convincing when the last frame Tom caught of you was a shot of tears dripping down your face, as three rings followed you. Tom’s screen went black in your absence, and Tom falls asleep with eyes even redder from crying, and he wonders when he’s gonna shake this sickness.

It’d been a few days since Tom had got his shots to allow him to go to Morocco. He sat opposite the doctor on set, a coffee cup placed on the desk between him.

Tom reckons that's why he’s sick. Shots always have their side effects, and he’d taken multiple shots in one day. And now, he specifically asked for you to hold his hand during the process, Harry branded in a glinting jaw-drop, only for you to leave directly after. 

“I’m speechless, constantly feeling over the edge, breathless.” Tom explains his symptoms to the doctor. “At first I thought it was because of that stupid football game, then all the coffee I’m drinking, now I don’t know if it’s the shots. I feel like shit, doc.”

“I know exactly what you’re dealing with.”

“What?”

“Lovebug.”

Tom stares at the doctor in utter bewilderment. “You figured that out based on my symptoms?”

“I figured that out based on the puppy dog eyes you gave for your first A.D. when they left without a word.” The doctor begins to laugh softly, but Tom is unamused. How is he supposed to shake this illness after completely ruining your relationship? How is he supposed to mend your bond after talking so recklessly, so emotionally? “Tom, I’m not here to be a fairy godmother, I’m being strictly medical. At a certain point, what you feel in your mind affects your body. So I prescribe that you talk to Y/N and say everything you need to say.”

And while that seemed easy enough, Tom’s ego was at work again, and Tom was feeling far too bruised and wounded to speak to you first. Surely if you cared enough, if you liked him back, if you were willing to be distanced, you would reach out first.

It seems Tom’s pride had forgotten that you already did.

“I heard that this is the exact shit that happened in Cleveland, and he couldn’t get the line out.” Tom hears the whisperings from behind the camera, the amount of familiar faces in the crew dwindling after the change in location. He doesn’t respond. He waits for someone to take five. And when no one throws him a bone, he asks Harry to.

“Alright, everyone take five.”

“Someone get this kid a fucking coffee, he’s always on edge.” Joe instructs.

“And you think giving a kid in twenties coffee is taking him off edge?” Anthony chuckles.

Tom doesn’t care whether or not he gets the coffee, rocking side to side. He’s got all the motion for this role, but he feels nothing. All he felt was for you.

“Here.” Harry sets a Moroccan mint tea down next to Tom, hoping it would calm him down. When Tom takes a few sips, the look in his eyes is less pleading, and everyone’s ready to rumble, this being the last scene of the day.

Harry feeds Tom the line. “Baby, are you seeing bad things?” Tom is seeing bad things. A life without love, a life without you. Unable to contain it all, Tom turns his frustration into laughter. “Why are you calling me baby for, man?” Tom has this ear-to-ear grin but even he feels it's not as innocent, as genuine as yours. He never knew a smile so wide could be so full of pain.

“I have an idea.” Harry saunters off to collect his phone. “Don’t stop rolling the cameras.”

When Harry comes back, there’s sounds of shifting erupting from his phone. “Hi, Tom.” 

Tom didn’t know it would be so bittersweet to hear your voice again. He wasn’t sure if he should put walls up again or if twice was the charm. Even if you worked out in the short term, whose to say Tom wouldn’t get hurt again? And Tom wouldn’t want to hurt you.

“Are they taking good care of you out there? I don’t think I took good care of you.” Tom doesn’t say anything on the other side of the line, so you continue. “I’m not a good A.D. if you’re always sick and tired, and I didn’t want to see you any less, which was selfish of me, so I didn’t change your schedule.” You sigh as you admit why you left. “When you asked, though, I swear I was gonna do it, but then I heard you liked me, and I got carried away. I had to remove myself from the situation to do what’s best for you. Do you understand me? I did it for you.”

“I, uh, I got a diagnosis.” Tom stumbles.

“Oh my gosh, are you seriously sick?”

“I’m speechless. Over the edge, breathless.” Tom laughed dryly, finally feeling like he can choose an ending.

“What did they say it was?”

“Lovebug.” Harry smiles softly at his brother.

Your laugh is like nectar entering Tom’s ear.

“I might just love you way too much, Y/N.”

“Are you sure you’re doin’ okay?” Tom tries his best not to sound dejected that you didn’t say it back, knowing he’s already felt the brunt of this heartache already.

“I just miss you, that’s all.”

“I miss you too. I love you.” Joe stops recording, and Harry lowly whispers ‘take.fucking.five.’ as he and the crew creep away from Tom’s new found love scene. 

“Anthony, can I borrow your phone?” Harry begins to type Nikki’s number as soon as Anthony gives over the phone. “Mum, Tom just told the first A.D. he’s in love with them so guess who’s out of a job?”

Tom knows why he’s sick. He used to feel like love was trudging up a high hill he couldn’t come down from, where every beat of heart was feeling like an ache on an open wound. Tom had yet to meet a lover to prove distance makes the heart grow fonder, finding himself in six month long entanglements and illusions of love before things inevitably went sour. But now, Tom has found you.

[taeyamayang]

Red Moon

PAIRING: kozume kenma x hinata shoyo

GENRE: body switch, crack ?, fluff, and romance

INSPIRED BY: Your Name. and asian culture

STATUS: on going

disclaimer: the myths, beliefs, and folklore are a reflection of my asian heritage so it can be influenced by more than one culture.

Prologue

kenma's eyes are gazed upon the phenomenon unraveling before him. he waited for this moment since this morning when he heard the news about the appearance of the red moon while packing his clothes for the 3-day volleyball training camp. mesmerized by the array of vermilion girdling the moon he took his phone out to capture it hoping to get a token from this event. his eyes squint at blurry red dot shown on his screen. his phone didn't do justice with it's beautyㅡhe thought.

"kenma!" a voice, amicable to his ears, roar at a distance pulling kenma back into reality. he turns his head to the source and sees a boy around his age running into his view. the strands of his orange hair bounces akin to his quick motion as the air strokes against it. his smile light up the dimmed pathway of the gym. he is eye-catching like the red moon.

"shoyo." kenma greets him back as soon as shoyo reaches his spot. he plumps next to him right after. he asks.

"are you here to see the red moon?" kenma hums in reply bringing his gaze back to the moon. "me, too." he says.

the crickets sang a song for them for a minute or two as they sit next to each other with their eyes glued to the moon. shoyo breaks the melody of the crickets.

"do you want to know something interesting?" shoyo says eyes now fixed at the blonde boy next to him. "my grandfather said that tons of unexplained phenomenon happen during red moon."

"do you believe in those?" kenma asks eyes still stuck on the moon. shoyo hums in thought before uttering a response.

"not entirely." he continues. "but you know there's a trend i saw online. i read it from a blog and it's about the red moon. it says there that there is an old belief that if you look at the red moon while repeating your name three times before closing your eyes something big will happen." shoyo's big gestures catch kenma's attention, thus, locking eyes with him.

"what is it?" kenma questions.

"i don't know. i didn't finish the reading the blog 'cause coach ukai called us for a meeting." he pauses. "do you think we should try it?" shoyo's eyes are bleaming with curiosity. his face inches away from kenma. the latter notices the decreasing distance the two of them. his cheeks fluster at the thought.

"i don't believe in that, shoyo." he pulls back murmuring to himself.

"exactly, i don't believe in it entirely too. it can be some silly trend online. don't you think we should try it?" shoyo's eyebrow twitches upward searching for kenma's eyes.

kenma is not a believer of the supernatural probably because he hasn't experienced any of those in his lifetime. he has never seen or felt anything paranormal or be put under a spell. the only thing that pushes him to try is the idea of not spoiling the fun for the orange boy. there's no harm in trying, right? besides, he's convinced that the blog is made up by someone bored enough to stir up an issue.

"i guess so." kenma glances back at him.

"okay, let's do it!" shoyo declares enthusiastically his body turned to him. kenma smiles at the sight of the exhilirated boy next to him, feeling equally as eager as him. a thought crosses his mind.

"shoyo?" shoyo hums in reply. "since this is just a joke how about we twitch it up a little?"

"what do you mean?" shoyo asks tilting his head to the side.

"how about you say my name and i say yours?"

kenma's suggestion catches shoyo off guard. the prior tries to read the latter's expression; his cheeks are rising, lips pursed, and ears red complimenting his orange hair.

"okay." shoyo agrees biting the inner sides of his cheeks.

the two boys proceeded to do the deed, saying each other's name three times in unison as they stare at the moon. their eyes flutter close once they're done. after a couple of seconds shoyo opens his eyes first, saying.

"kenma, what do you think hap-" he stops mid-sentence feeling odd with the way his voice sounds like. he looks down at his cold feet. his toes are showing and he's wearing slip ons? albeit, he remembers wearing his rubber shoes on the way out. the wooden pillar next to him is at his right when it's supposed to be at his left since he's sitting at the right side of kenma. right, kenma. oh god, kenma.

he turns his head to person next to him. an orange boy welcomes his sight. specifically, an orange boy wearing rubber shoes. his mouth gaped and he could see the color on his face slowly dissipating. his hands are supporting his weight as he leans backward. eyes as wide as the moon as he takes in the sight in front of him.

"we switched bodies?!"

continue reading

[sonderthroughthestreets]

Souls of the Underworld (Greek Myth AU)

Hi!!! I’ve been working on something for a while now and this is the first time I’m attempting something like this. This is a Greek Myth AU for sobbe and I don’t have everything figured out but I’m really excited to see where this goes! I’ll post the link but you can read it here too. I might have longer chapters going forward. Hope you enjoy reading it!

A/N: It’s an AU where they are demigods and it’s mainly centred around the Hades and Persephone myth. Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Angst. No warnings apply (for this chapter) 1861 words

AO3

Special thanks to @to-enter-polaris (whose gifset themes had started all this) @fvae @robbesdriesen and @lieverobbe for helping me with this! I love you all dearly💞

She wasn't always like this.

It wasn’t always messy words screamed in anger and torn apart syllables. It wasn’t shattered glass and shattered parts of herself, a wreckage in the storm. And it wasn’t a stream of negligence, silence hanging in the air, unintentional at best.

In the cold nights of winter, it would feel like a ghost swallowed in the dark, like a walking corpse floating silently down the halls. The grey skies would engulf her whole being in the mornings, unable to let her move or get out of bed. She wouldn’t eat, she wouldn’t sleep, she wouldn’t tend to things that needed to be tended to. Some days she’d swear she’d burn this whole city, a bitterness in her throat as she grumbled the words lying under the covers.

But she wasn't always like this.

In the months of a new spring or in the sweet heat of the summer, she would be different, completely reborn of ashes. It was as if her body would wake up from slumber, rejuvenated and refreshed, and in the midst of her slowly healing soul, she would hold a small, little boy in her arms. She would sway him and sing him lullabies to sleep, and as he got older, she would kiss his injuries and welcome him to her bed when he had nightmares. And when he got older still, she would run her fingers through his dark hair and she would make him breakfast, cutting up fruit for him. She would lay kiwis, strawberries, blueberries, and blackberries, really any kind of berry, on a plate. Oranges and melons, apples and bananas. But as he got even older still, she told him that pomegranates were her favourite.

He would watch her slice open the rind and fiddle with the seeds, a yellow hazy glow surrounding her. The details of her face were hard to decipher, but her smile and warmth was there. It was a warmth as radiant as the sun. And that warmth would just slip away. Just when he felt like he could reach up and touch her, she always slipped away.

“Robbe,” he heard her voice, sweet as honey in the thick air. It echoed and faded into ringing.

“Robbe.”

His eyes abruptly opened and his body jolted in bed. Light peeked from the windows of his shared apartment, illuminating his room. The ringing hadn’t stopped and he realized it was the alarm on his phone buzzing. He let out a groan and turned it off. When his eyes focused on the screen, they widened to see the time. 08:35. He was late. He was very, very late.

Jumping out of bed, he threw on the shirt closest to him and headed for the bathroom. It was locked and as Robbe jostled the doorknob, he knew who was inside.

“Milan! Milan come on,” he yelled through the door. He brought his ear closer to hear him singing in the shower, completely unaware of his state of panic. Robbe sighed.

Just then, Zoë emerged from her room shuffling through the purse in her hands. She had an almost frantic look on her face as well.

“Robbe, have you seen my charger? I can’t find it and I have to meet Senne soon,” she asked him.

Sure enough, she was dressed for the fall weather, wearing a loose beige sweater layered over a fitted black full-sleeve, her blonde hair immaculately straight and her lips tainted with her favourite red lipstick. The effort wasn’t just all for Senne, but Robbe could smell the perfume he helped her buy and he noticed the extra rings she wore on her fingers. He could sense her frustration in not wanting to be late, to see him as soon as possible.

“Maybe try under the couch cushions,” he suggested. “Things always get stuck there.”

As Zoë turned into the living room to squeeze her hands through the cushions, Robbe tried knocking once more, calling out Milan’s name. When she returned with her charger, she thanked him and gave him a look of realization.

“Shouldn’t you be in class by now?” she asked.

“Slept in. And Milan is not helping,” Robbe rolled his eyes.

“Milan!” Zoë knocked. She turned back to Robbe. “He’ll be out soon. I hope,” she added. “We’re still meeting up tonight, right?”

She doubled checked her bag for her keys, her phone, and other essentials, then looked up to see how distracted Robbe looked. His mind was elsewhere, drifting through the memories of his dream, eyes fixated to the side. He could feel her watching him.

“Robbe?” Zoë asked. Robbe’s brown eyes lifted to meet hers finally and he tried to muster up the best smile he could manage.

“Yeah,” he said. Zoë didn’t look convinced but she also didn’t want to push him, especially when both of them were pressed for time and she knew how much Robbe didn’t like being late. So instead she opted to reach out and squeeze his shoulder with a solemn smile.

“I’ll see you tonight, then,” she said as she hurriedly left the apartment, the door clicking closed.

Robbe heard the shower stop and a humming Milan with a pink towel on his head opened the bathroom door.

“Finally!” he threw his hands up as he entered, ignoring Milan teasing him with a

“Wow, someone’s in a grumpy mood.” -

By the time Robbe rushed outside with his bike, the sun hid behind the clouds of grey skies. It smelled like rain, the petrichor oozing off the streets of Antwerp and as he rode, pedalling faster than ever, his energy depleted. His initial panic had worn off and now he just felt dread about going to class. As he turned a corner to the university, his mind kept seeping memories from his dream this morning. He always felt a twinge of bittersweet whenever he thought about his mother, but she never left his mind or heart.

The time spent with her in the summers, laughter floating through the air and the feeling of sadness when autumn came and she had to leave or the lonely winters when he was younger and it was just him and his papa, it all still burned in his memory. He’d just seen her the past month, but she had left again for therapy treatment. He’d speak with his dad from time to time with awkward pleasantries shared, but it just wasn’t the same, What little time he could spend with her, he cherished and whenever she left, he felt a gaping hole in his chest. God, he missed his mama.

Robbe quietly snuck into the lecture hall for his plant biology course, shaking his curls and trying not to rustle his brown jacket as he took it off. He sat in his seat next to Yasmina who gave him a squinty-eyed look.

“What?” he whispered.

“You’re late,” she whispered back.

“Yeah, and?”

“You’re never late.”

He glanced at her, her olive green hijab perfectly wrapped around her head and her pens laid on the desk neatly next to her notebook. Always on time, always prepared.

“Sorry,” was all he could say as he took out his own notebook, irritated that it was true but he couldn’t do anything about it now.

Yasmina looked like she wanted to say something but just then the door to the class opened and a student walked in. He slipped by unseen and promptly took what seemed to be the only seat available: next to Robbe. Others may not have noticed him, but Robbe’s eyes had followed him all the way until he sat down. He was donned in all black, shirt, jeans, jacket all black and his bleached blond hair looked almost white under the fluorescent lights. He had a strong jawline and perfectly tanned skin, radiating a glow Robbe didn’t know was possible.

When he glanced over at him, Robbe had turned his head back to his notebook so fast, he might have gotten whiplash. He tried to focus on the professor and his notes instead. Scribbling down the names of plants being mentioned, he also tried to slow his breathing. But that was pointless when the boy leaned over to look at his writing.

“You write the names in Latin and Greek?” he asked.

Robbe wasn’t expecting that question, yet he lifted his head to answer.

“Yeah,” he drawled slowly.

“Strange,” was all the boy said before looking straight ahead to the professor.

And Robbe didn’t know why but it irked him. For as long as he could remember, he’d been able to read and write in Greek and he would always accompany any Latin with Greek. Who was this guy, coming into class late, not even notebooks or a laptop open for notes, and what made him feel the need to comment on his notes? He hadn’t even seen him in class before now. If it wasn’t for the fact that he still felt groggy after waking up late, he’d probably say something, but instead he seethed in silence for the next hour and a half.

Once class ended and everyone packed up to leave, Robbe saw him glance over at him one more time, like he was deciding something, unsure and suspicious. Like he was sensing something. Sensing him.

Then he left.

“We’re studying Thursday for the midterm, right?” Yasmina piped up behind him. Robbe was almost startled.

“Yep,” he told her. “At 16:00?”

“Sounds good. Who was that?” she tilted her head at the now empty space where the boy had been.

“I don’t know. Never seen him before in this class,” Robbe shrugged.

“Me neither. Probably just transferred from another course or got off the waitlist for this one.”

“Probably.”

“I’m sorry I can’t make it tonight for the get-together,” Yasmina said as she lifted her bag. Robbe, his flat mates, and all their friends planned to spend some time together tonight at the apartment. It had been a while since all of them had been together, what with school and their own lives muddling in-between. Second year in uni for Robbe was turning out to be much easier than his first, but he still wanted to find time to dedicate to relaxing with his friends. Yasmina had been able to make it once before, but mostly she had to keep missing them.

“That’s ok. You know, you don’t have to apologize every time,” Robbe smiled at her.

“I know,” she returned the smile. “It’s just I really have to help out my parents and I wish I could be there.”

“Next time,” he blinked with a slight nod, lips curving up with sincerity.

“Maybe you could invite your new friend, too,” she teased.

“Again, I don’t know him,” he rolled his eyes.

While walking out of class together, he tried to ignore the nagging feeling inside of him that he would, get to know him that is. The nauseating feeling that irony would catch up to him. That feeling that there was something about that boy and he couldn’t be sure about him either.

The one that told him he sensed something in him too.

[deathfrisbeeinthetardis]

The Sky Beast, New and Improved Chapter 2

Yay I wrote a second chapter for the fic!! One of the key plot points is inspired by @q-unsolved‘s amazing art :D

Summary:

Ryan Bergara is 100% human until they shoot the Mothman episode. They didn’t find anything but Ryan might have brought a piece of the investigation home with him. Or: A bit of Mothman attaches to Ryan and he gets pretty cool perks. Shane is a fan.

Chapter 2 Summary:

Ryan goes to work with his wings tucked away, and they go camping for the weekend. Hijinks ensue.

Find it on Ao3 here or read below!

They take a sick day.   

Partly to figure out how to best keep Ryan's transformation a secret from the rest of the world. Partly just because it is all new and exciting, and the two men want the chance to completely regress to boys for the occasion, you know, to celebrate. 

Case in point, Ryan is flapping around his apartment with Shane on his tail, his wings doing all the work to keep them and Ryan's body from crashing into the walls or the furniture. They had taken time before this to clear away everything of value from shelves or tables, of course, they were capable of behaving like adults for a few minutes longer before they totally lost it.

"How's your six-foot-fourness helping now huh?" Ryan shouts with glee, cackling breathlessly as his wings maneuver him deftly away from Shane's outstretched hands, settling him to perch on top of a cupboard. 

"Damn it, why aren’t you obeying the laws of physics?" Shane wheezed, supporting his hands on his bent knees before said cupboard with a giant grin on his face, which brightened even more, "You know what? Your mob name is going to be wings now if I am to be called legs! It's only fair." he declared, straightening with hands on his hips.

"Uh, no way. My wings are totally going to be my secret weapon! I can't go announcing that to all my enemies, also Night-Night is way cooler. You're just jealous." Ryan stuck out his tongue, relishing in the joy of this moment. The past two hours actually, they really haven't accomplished much.

It takes another half an hour before both of them are too exhausted and hungry to continue, and they collapse onto Ryan's couch with a carton of orange juice between them, chugging it down with the fervor of men after vigorous aerobic exercise and several cases of severe laughter-syndrome. 

"So," Shane says when his breaths finally start to even out, "We know you can fly outside the natural laws of this earth. Also, I think I saw you're eyes glint red when the light hit it a few minutes ago, you're not about to go rogue on me now are you?"

"Wait, really?" He really hadn't noticed, cause that's not how eyes work. It was probably too dark the last time he looked in the mirror that morning for him to see. Ryan sets the carton onto the coffee table and hops over it to get to the window where watery sunlight shines into the room. Using his phone as a makeshift mirror, he wiggles his head until the light catches his eyes at a certain angle and, "Oh wow, they really are red."

"That could be a problem with filming, especially when our cameras are all good enough to avoid red-eye." Shane pauses, then chuckles, "Oh boy, if the fans ever find out they are going to go crazy. All those theorists positing how I'm a demon are gonna come after you now!"

Ryan wrinkles his nose at his reflection, "You're being way too happy about this."

"Hey, you win some you lose some. At least your red eyes are normal-sized, not like goggles or something like in the myths."

"Goggles," Ryan frowns at that, something in his memory sparking an idea, "didn't you recently get those pair of broke-Tony Stark glasses? The yellow ones?" He eyes Shane without turning, "You think they sell red ones? I can always say the red is from the glasses' reflection."

The other man makes a considering noise and pulls out his phone, after a minute his brows climb high on his forehead, stretching out his hand to show the screen displaying an astounding collection of red-tinted sunglasses, "They're supposed to help with visibility apparently, like the yellow ones." He strokes his nonexistent goatee, "Hmm I wonder what character wears red glasses, I gotta get you back for that Tony Stark comment."

"Shut up, Shane," Ryan replies almost on instinct, squinting at the screen to pick out the least obnoxious design. There was an optician's a few blocks from his apartment and Shane volunteers to get Ryan a pair while he practices camouflaging into a normal human workplace.

It actually turns out to be pretty easy, just as long as he keeps the thought of the necessity of the invisibility in the back of his mind. Ryan also discovers to his delight and Shane's halfhearted dismay that tangibility does not seem to affect his flight ability much beyond some extra concentration. He'll be fine tomorrow at work. He'll just have to remember to take a break every few hours to stretch or something. 

The shoot on Monday though, that could be a problem. Now that he has gotten used to his wings through one day of intense usage, Ryan has absolutely no guarantees that if he gets spooked he won't just flap away on instinct. 

Shane sleeps over that night to 'observe the Mothman in his natural habitat', Ryan decides his newest favorite sleeping position right in the middle of a five-pillow nest and when he drifts off he dreams about the red-eyed Mothman from the stories.

On Friday, Ryan wears the biggest hoodie he owns to work, just in case his wings pop-out unplanned. Despite the confidence from the day before, paranoia of a different kind creeps up on him as he sits at his desk next to Shane. He almost never comes in this early, but it was better than walking through the office with everyone there. 

He stares bleary-eyed when his computer boots up, taking his new glasses out of the case and setting them on his nose. The color gives everything a mildly sinister tinge and makes him more self-conscious of his appearance than he has been in a long time, but they do their job. 

He's quite proud that he only jumps a little when Jen calls "Nice specs, Ryan!" from six desks away. He also manages to wait until lunch break before he has to race to the bathroom to let his wings out. One of the pros of working at Buzzfeed is that there are constantly so many weird things happening that his abnormal choice in eye-wear didn't draw any attention more than a few comments and even some compliments. 

All things considered, it's a good day. Ryan even manages to get a good chunk of editing done amidst his paranoia and routine banter with Shane, the latter has gradually started to become more and more moth specific. Seriously did the guy research all the moth puns through the night?

"What do you call a group of moths dancing around a light?" Shane leans over to say an hour before they can go home for the weekend, his eyes twinkling, "A moth pit." 

Ryan groans, choosing not to respond as the passive-aggressive way to protest against the excessive abuse of all things moth-related within the day. His shoulders feel stiff, and out of habit he folds his arms behind his head and leans back in a long slow stretch, and it is the most satisfying stretch in his life, as the strain of a whole afternoon of mostly sitting still with his head craned forward just vanishes. He hums a little in satisfaction. 

Simultaneously, the lights overhead go out. So does his computer. And everyone else's. 

"Oh no no no my computer just crashed!?"

"Is there a power outage? What's going on?"

"I didn't save..."

Ryan is frozen in his position as the cacophony of voices barrages his now slightly enhanced hearing, and it hits him a moment later. In a flash, he's hunching down in his seat, trying to seem as small as he can with his face in his hands, while his invisible wings come down to wrap around him from where they had just stretched too, unseen. Fuck. Wasn't there a thing about electrical malfunctions on the nights of Mothman sightings? Oh god, he hopes he didn't knock the whole of Los Angeles off the grid. He feels his face flush, the skin heating up against his palms. Great job Bergara. Fantastic managing of your powers. 

Shane, who had been in the process of returning to his own editing after snickering at his godawful joke, has his hands hovering over the keyboard and a bemused smile on his face as he tilts his head and sees Ryan with the hood of his hoodie pulled down over his face. 

"I'm sorry," Ryan mumbles faintly into his hands, "I didn't think that part would apply to me."

Shane looks at him for a moment, then he claps a hand on Ryan's shoulder and wiggles him a little in his seat as his smile splits into a grin, "Lucky for you, I save my work by the hour. Otherwise, you'd have to fly like hell cause I'll tackle you."

"You'd never catch me," Ryan says, lifting his head a little to shoot a grateful glance at the taller man, "remember yesterday?"

"Oh but I was unprepared!" Shane declares, rubbing his hands and widening his eyes until he resembled a crazed hunter, "Next time I'll have a bow and a ton of those suction-tipped arrows, and I'm bringing you down baby!"

"You're unbelievable." Ryan huffs with a laugh, glancing around the pandemonium that has descended onto the BuzzFeed office and what seems to be the street outside as well, "Ugh, wanna head back now? We're gonna have to walk, uber is definitely not going to work."

Shane nods, chuckling silently at the whole situation. On their way out, Ryan desperately avoids eye contact with anyone and stares at his red-tinted feet, only snapping out of his inner guilt tirade when Shane pokes him in the rib.

"Stop looking down and hunching your shoulders, makes you look more guilty." He chides, the stupid grin still on his face as he tugs Ryan's hood back as they walk onto the sunlit street. "They'll just blame it on PG&E. The whole thing will teach everyone a lesson to be on top of their job and not rely entirely on technology and big electrical companies to save their work."

"You're just smug that you didn't get affected as much." Ryan retorts, but the comment didn't have any actual heat behind it. 

"You bet I am. Come on, buck up buddy. We've got the entire weekend to have fun with this!" The taller man gestured to the general area on Ryan's back where his wings hung hidden, "Don't you want to go into the wild and see what happens?"

Ryan would never tell Shane this, but his wings stir and shudder a little at the words as if they were dying to show the extent of their abilities. Traitors. 

They end up in Monrovia Canyon Park after an hour-long drive that afternoon, since they figured most of LA's population would be out in the city doing fun Friday night things, so the chances of anyone seeing a figure flying through the trees of the park are greatly reduced. Fortunately, they arrive with around an hour of sunlight left to hike in and set up their camping gear. Unfortunately, the light gives Ryan the opportunity to read the sign at the trailhead. 

"Fuck no." Ryan yelps, pointing an accusing finger at the picture of a black bear with the words 'warning, you are entering bear territory' emblazoned in black under it. He's terrified of bears, those things are the apex predators of the land, and Shane knows that because they've argued about this multiple times, on camera. It's probably why he chose this damn park over the others. "I am not camping here with those things around."

The man shrugs and the tall backpack on his shoulders rise up at least half a foot with the motion. "It is the most heavily wooded park in the area, and I do have this bear mace here," He says innocently, though his brown eyes sparkling in the sunlight seem to issue a challenge that riles up something in Ryan into a frenzy. "And in case you forgot, you can fly, Ryan, no bears are gonna get you."

"I hate you," Ryan mutters darkly, shooting the other man a look that was something between affection and scorn. What Shane said makes sense, logically, and Ryan is beyond annoyed when stuff like this happens on the regular. Speaking of powers, he wonders if there are any more tricks up the Mothman's sleeve that he can use to give Shane a good getting back at. 

Ryan half stomps over and yanks the canister of anti-bear from the side pocket of the taller man's pack, scowling at his snicker and latches onto the cool metal with a death grip, finger crooked into the trigger. Shane is right on one account, no bears are going to get him on this trip, or he'll get a face of mace and whatever cool shit Mothman can do when it's spooked. 

They dump their bags in a patch of grass amidst the trees, far from any established trails or camping grounds just to be safe. With a sigh of relief, Ryan's wings materialize at his back, dark against the dimly lit forest around them, dwarfing Ryan with their span. It seems they hadn't been at their full size that day in his apartment. They now stretch twelve feet in total, drawing a sharp awed inhale from Shane as the powerful limbs flex and stretch in their freedom. The best part? Ryan didn't even have to take off his hoodie, the wings found their own way through the material without really altering it. 

Ryan rolls his neck and relishes the warmth that the cracks leave behind as the soreness melts away, and he grins at Shane. "What now?" he says, a little breathless already.

"Whatever feels natural, Ryan." Shane says with a wolfish grin of his own, "Just let go of all the stress and embrace mother nature." 

So Ryan lets his eyes flutter close and gives in to that wild part in him that has started stirring since their investigation in Virginia. When he opens his eyes again, their red glint sharpens his vision as his wings carry him straight up into the air. The wind whips at his face and he has his arms spread wide, laughter bubbling out of him as his previous fear of heights dissolves into the crisp rich air.

He rides the soft winds, weaving through the semi-dense woods around their campsite and listens to his new instincts as he twirled in the air performing moves that he had once seen professional divers do. He feels free in there, and even though the falls and dips in height still send his stomach clenching, it's more in anticipation of the thrill of control, of pulling back at the very last second to glide just a few feet off the ground, rather than fear. He flies and perches on various treetops and swoops again, all to the whooping and cheering of Shane from down bellow. 

"Hey Ryan! Look what I brought!" He shouted, and Ryan glides down to a lower branch to give the not-so-tall looking man a questioning glance, the man was smirking with mischief, holding out a hand to wiggle a bright camping lantern in his direction, "Since you're Mothman, d'you feel anything for this here light?"

Ryan was about to adjust his grip on the branch to only using a certain finger on both hands when suddenly Shane yelps and starts to do a twitchy dance with his upper body. For a second Ryan panics, but he was just close enough for his enhanced night vision to see that the strange behavior is, in fact, not caused by a demon possessing his friend. 

"Oh, fuck is that a wasp?" Ryan bursts out laughing at the way Shane's face contorts a little at the tiny insect buzzing uncomfortably close to his face and did not feel sorry at all for his friend. Nope. Ryan was almost squealing in delight as Shane batted at the wasp as best he could, flapping his long arms around with a panicked look on his face. 

"See what you get? This is what you get! Yes! Take that for--" Its a shame that his victory speech is cut short when a wasp materializes right in front of his own face, sending him tumbling backward off the branch with a high pitched screech. 

A part of his brain thinks that if people heard what he had just uttered, there are going to be reports of the first Mothman sighting in Los Angelas. 

For some life-fucking reason, the wasp--actually three of them now-- tormenting Shane decide to refocus their attention on the flying creature instead of the sasquatch. They obviously haven’t taken physics or learned about surface area.

Ryan threads his way through the trees with much less of his previous flare and joy, flying for his life as the few wasps quickly grow to a swarm, despite a small voice in his head encouraging him to stop, to take a stand. What the fuck did he ever do to them?? It's not like he kicked their nest or something. Frustration and exhaustion combining is never a good look on Ryan, and after what he estimates is four minutes of high-speed air chase, he dives to the ground. Landing softly, he lets instincts take over, whirling around to let out a snarl at the swarm that races for him, wings arched at his back and shaking slightly to make rustling sounds.

The wasp swarm halts before him with a jerk.

Ryan's teeth are bared, which is kind of dumb, cause he doesn't have fangs so that image must not be very scary to anyone. But the wasps hover before him, their formation shifting uncertainly, and Ryan can see the detail on each and every buzzing insect with crystal clarity. A deadly calm washes over him.

"Heel." He growls, and his own voice startles himself. With all the macho, gangster bits they've done on Unsolved, he has never heard his voice go this low and guttural. Ryan blinks, and the heavy blanket of calm is gone. 

The wasps hold still, their formation now in a fixed sphere as they buzzed quietly. Respectfully, a part of Ryan's mind supplies, they serve him now. What the hell just happened?

A crackle of a boot on dry leaves has Ryan whipping his head around to see Shane approaching him with a flashlight and bear mace in perfect Harries position, concern and something like dread tightening his face. "Ryan come here, get away from the wasps." 

"They're not a threat anymore Shane," he said, tone stiff and tired. "They obey me now." The taller man looks doubtful but after a few flashes of light at the swarm produced no change in the wasps' motion, he slowly lowered the mace can. 

"I-I didn't know what to do so I just grabbed this," he said, lifting the mace a bit and then letting his arms drop back to his side. "Ryan are you okay? Your hands are shaking."

"What?" Ryan says absently, and there are tremors running through his hands. He clenches them into fists and tucks them into his hoodie pocket. A flick of his head at the swarm has them dispersing, buzzing back to wherever the hell they popped out from. "We're losing light, we should set up the tent," he says as he turns to walk back to where they had dropped their bags.

Shane stands his ground and reaches out a hand to catch the smaller man's shoulder when Ryan tries to walk past him, and his eyes widen slightly as Ryan's wings bristle at the contact, but his grip is firm. "If there's something wrong, Ry, anything at all that feels off about this whole Mothman thing, you'd tell me, right?"

"Yeah. I'm fine, big guy." Ryan offers the taller man a small smile, though it might have wavered a little. He can tell that his friend would have liked answers to a great many questions about how he felt, about the mad chase and about that final showdown, but the man didn't push. He trusts Ryan to reach out if he needed it.

The problem is, Ryan has never been that good with emotions.

But at the moment he feels... okay. The excitement of the ordeal seems to have canceled out his energy. So he smiles some more, "I promise." At Shane's not at all satisfied expression, he nudges the taller man with the tip of a dark wing, "Come on, help me light a fire. I'm dying for some smores."

And so they did.

[the-shield-of-infinity-writing]

Family isn’t just blood. (Request)

Prompt: I want to be anonymous... Can you do a Loki x Reader where the reader is lonely within her family who isn't overly fond of her and Loki comforts her? Please and thank you!--Anonymous

Note: Family are buttholes, hurt, and comfort

Words: 1115

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x Reader 

Requested by: Anonymous 

(Y/N) was sick, not just physically, but mentally as well. She had just come back from a family gathering and she swears that she probably just lost a few years of her life due to the stress. She slammed the door to her room at the Avengers Tower before she let out a shaky sigh, sliding down the door. She let out a sob of despair as her hands came up and covered her face.

Inside her room she felt safe, inside her room she wasn’t caged, or trapped in the darkness that was her family. The entire time she was there her parents asked if she was dating, her Aunt asked why she didn’t have any kids. They were telling her to get a real job and stop playing superhero which hurt a lot more than she originally thought it would, because she wasn’t playing.

Loki had just returned home from a little search mission with Natasha and Steve when he traveled to (Y/N)’s room. He had a soft spot for the young woman, because she was always looking for the good in place. He was about to knock on the door when he heard sobbing from the other side causing his eyes to widen in shock at the heartfelt sorrow that was coming from her.

“(Y/N)? Are you alright?” He asked, gently wrapping his fist against the door. He heard some shuffling around the room before it opened slowly as Loki’s eyes connected to her eyes that were red from crying and blurred from unshed tears. “L-Loki, you’re back early. The mission go good then?” She asked, smiling as if trying to play off that nothing was wrong, but Loki knew better.

“Why were you crying?” He was blunt, but he if he wasn’t she’d try to dodge it and he wasn’t going to let her change the subject. “Um… Family… issues.” She murmurs, picking at her door when Loki suddenly surged forward and allowed himself inside without her permission as he closed the door behind him. “Why?” He tilted his head as she looked to him in shock.

“I uh… I…” She trailed off when he held up his hand. “Don’t lie to me either. I can tell when you are lying to me.” He murmured as she nods. “Well tonight was the first night that my family could be together as a whole. So I couldn’t just say no… I don’t… hate my family, but I don’t like them that much either.” She sighed before slowly sinking down onto the end of her bed as Loki followed.

“What happened?” He watched her run her hand across her forehead as she let out a shaky breath. “They know exactly how to make me feel like I’m nothing before even stepping through the front door.” She laughs as tears well in her waterline. Loki knew what it was like to feel like nothing in the eyes of the ones you considered your family, knew what it was like to hurt.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet as she looks at him. “For what? You don’t make them spit nasty things about me. You don’t tell me that I need to have a husband, or children, because last time I checked I didn’t need those things to be happy.” She sniffed as he cupped her face. “You don’t need those things to be happy.” He explained as she smiles, leaning into the touch before sighing.

“They told me I need to stop playing pretend and get a real job like a doctor who saves people, or a lawyer.” She mumbled when his grip on her face tightened. “Excuse me? You are saving people. This is a real job. You save those doctors and lawyers that your family so desperately wants you to be. You are so much more than they shall ever be.” His voice was sharp.

“Thanks Loki, but they’re… right.” She looked away as her phone start ringing when she sighed, pulling it out of her coat pocket to see her mother’s number displayed across the screen. “Fuck me.” She growls under her breath. “Hello?” She asked, answering her phone. “(Y/N)! How rude! You just ran out of the house without an explanation and your Aunt flew out to see you!” Her mother barked.

(Y/N)’s face cracked as tears flood down her face again. “I’m-I’m sorry Momma. I just--” She was cut off. “Why can’t you be more like your cousin! She wouldn’t leave like that! You’re just an emotional mess!” Her mother’s words were cutting deeply inside of her chest as Loki’s eyes widened at the way her mother spoke to her when Loki acted almost immediately without a thought.

“Excuse me?” Loki demanded, standing up as (Y/N)’s eyes widened. “Your daughter is an emotional mess, because of the creatures that call themselves her family! You do not deserve this Goddess to be part of your life! This girl is stronger than any doctor or lawyer! She saves the entire world from things that everyone believed to be myths! And she is human!” Loki exclaimed.

“L-Loki--” (Y/N) tried to stop him, but the words were creating this fuzzy feeling within her chest as he held up his hand for her to be silent. “And She does have someone. I am that someone! I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t allow me to meet you, but now I see why! You are worse than scum!!” He snapped before hanging up on her mother as she covers her mouth.

“Loki!” She gasps. “I apologize, but I will not sit by and allow them to make you feel this way! Do you hear me (Y/N) (L/N)? You are amazing! You saved an entire bus of children that was hanging off the side of a bridge! While taking down minions! You are someone that young girls inspire to be! You have to know that!” Loki bent down onto his knee in front of her as she smiles.

“Did you mean what you said?” She asked as he tilted his head. “About being with… me? It’s okay if you didn’t mean it--” She was cut off as his lips pressed against her own causing her eyes to widen. “Yes, yes I did. You are amazing in my eyes. You and I are so alike in things I wish we weren’t.” He chuckled when she hugged him tightly. “Thank you Loki… I feel better already.” She murmurs, not caring that she’ll get an earful later. Right here and right now was all that matter to her as she tightened her hold while he held her back.

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[aaron-golden]

The World of Mercedes Ketch

Persephone had long retreated into the underworld, and Everett believed that the place she entered the underworld from was Toronto. Cold and polite, the gray apple, the chill in the air seeping into people's minds and hearts. It's why he liked Toronto; the sense of etiquette without thought, pity without relevance.

He'd known someone, decades ago, that had described autumn as a time of edges and scripture.

“What about winter?” Everett had asked that man.

“You'd have to ask Persephone,” the man answered. He'd died soon after, held in Everett's arms.

Steam rose from gutters and carried the scent of waste and cigarettes and coffee. He nestled in his jacket, coffee close at hand. He'd just gotten back from Brazil and a new supplier, the coffee good and rich in his hands, down his throat, settling in his belly. Two cups, one for him and one for the lwa as entropy tightened fingers on the throat of civilization.

Civilization was crumbling, but it had crumbled before many times. He'd learned to enjoy whatever a civilization could offer before faltering in and dying, and this one had come so far. The stars struggled to find some place in the night sky, but the purple-orange haze of smog and clouds turned even the moon away.

The coffee grounded him. The candles littered around him, protected from the snow and still air, the dull haze of a hundred streetlights below him and around him. He was on the roof of a building he owned – his home on the second floor, a coffee shop he ran on the first. Good cheap coffee, some tasty snacks, free wi-fi, open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, closed on Christmas but open for New Year's.

Every New Year's made him smile, the arbitrary measurement of time this world was now obsessed with. He wondered what the next civilization would build itself on, once this one was dead and past and remembered only as another dark age. The arrogance of humankind, to think that whatever age they lived in was the apex of every possibility, that what they knew now was the only truth there could ever possibly be.

Cold and polite, he felt the soul of Toronto rear up and stare, nodding its head as it wandered the corridors of itself.

So many spirits out tonight, he thought. I wonder why.

He was having a moment, he knew, unable to remember whether this was the end or the beginning of winter. He knew where he was but after so long the seasons blended together, the decades, the centuries. He'd been told to remember and he did, back before sky had become earth, back before they'd won the war but lost, lost, lost so much.

What good was it to remember when everything he was had long since passed from breath into dust?

A shattering electric light flared into light beside him, the twinkling mire of a cell phone ring. That grounded him a little; he was here and now. He stared, took a deep breath, let the sense of time wash over and through him. Call display showed no name but a long string of numbers, one of those strange equations that came from across the Atlantic.

He reached for the phone, tracing the edge of the small screen, his hand looking like a shadow against the light and the trickling flakes of falling snow, so gentle.

“Hello?” Everett asked, smiling at the sound of his own voice. The deepness of it, the richness, unmarred by centuries past and the present world.

“Hi, Dad.” Two words, the voice familiar. He'd had children in the past, watched them grow old and die. Some he'd sired and others he'd adopted and this voice was from the latter, a small girl left to die in the care of those who saw only someone to be used until withered. He'd bought her, a black man buying a Hispanic girl from white folks. From Rose Unwanted to Rose Stone and now, now, he'd given her away and seen her married, and now she was Rose Ketch.

“Hey,” he said, smiling. He remembered her, the flash of her eyes, the crook of her lips when she smiled. The way she did her hair, the studious way her brow furrowed. Published, respected, he'd watched her grow and cultivated her loves, staring in awe at the women that unwanted child had become. “I don't recognize this number. Where are you calling from?”

“Acco, in Israel,” Rose answered. Names cycled through Everett's head, old names, dead names – Devinii, Kebara, Natufian, Meggido, Canaan, Kandar, Judea, Syria-Palestina, Palestine... He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He'd spent little time in the area, had avoided it for the sake of memory. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“You're doing that breathing thing you do.” Rose sounded concerned. She knew him so well. “Are you having one of your... episodes? Do you know the year? The month?”

“It's Toronto in winter time,” Everett answered, sounding stronger than he felt. “And I have a newspaper subscription on my phone. I've just been thinking.”

“What about?”

“Time.”

“Ah,” she said, and though she sounded reluctant she took the hint and let the matter drop. “How's Toronto?”

“Cold,” Everett said, and now his smile was genuine. He was looking down at the few people that wandered the city this late, the chill so much more than mere weather. “How's Israel?”

“Hot,” Rose answered, and he imagined the heat there was much the same. “Do you remember I was telling you about John's dig? The new one?”

“Surcess?”

“No, dad, he finished with Surcess,” Rose sounded playful, and he could imagine the light of her eyes. “The new one.”

“Surcess would be enough for anyone else,” Everett said, but his tone robbed the words of their criticism. He liked John and always had, but something was tickling him. “Isn't it pronounced Akko?”

“Or Acre,” Rose confirmed. “You know these places don't translate well. There's something like fifteen versions for spelling Hannukah I've seen in English alone.”

“I like Channukah.”

“The the one that starts with 'ch'?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know there are people debating Surcess' authenticity?” Rose asked. She sighed, and he could hear her stand, imagined her walking through whatever house she was living in. Acco, he recalled, was closer to the sea. Western Israel. “It doesn't help that a private investor bought the whole island.”

“The Verenes,” Everett said, nodding. Solaina, Robert, and... Lloyd. He narrowed his eyes, thinking of the latter. He'd never liked Lloyd.

“You remember them?” Rose asked. As if he would ever forget. “They were very excited.”

“I'm sure,” Everett answered, trying to keep his voice mild. “I'm sorry I missed the party.” He'd never been to Surcess – he'd been touring what would become Carthage when he'd first heard the stories. A whole island of people who would do favors for others and eat those who would not pay them back as demanded. Monstrous, evil humans, their name living on through the ages and now dismissed as myth. The Hellenists had destroyed them, led by a woman who had claimed their island for herself.

“It's alright,” Rose sighed. “The Verenes are turning the whole thing private, though, and without further investigation...”

“It's making John look bad,” Everett finished the lingering sentence. He knew how hard it was to explain anything to people when it challenged their view of the world; the people of the earth always preferred the shadows in the cave to the world outside, so afraid to remember the sky.

He wondered if, living among them, he had become so guilty. Would he know? How often might it happen? He shook his head, sat down in the snow and cradled his coffee. It was still warm, scalding his lips, but he didn't mind the sensation. He let it ground him.

“How's John taking it?”

“He's trying not to let it get to him, but you know how he is.” Rose paused, and he could hear the quickening of her breath. “And it's killing Jack.”

“And so he's brought you to Israel,” Everett asked, the words not quite a question. If people were challenging John about Surcess he would find it difficult to get more grants, more funding... “How are you feeling about that? How's Mercy enjoying that?”

“She likes the oranges and the fields,” Rose said. There was something wistful in her voice, something sad. “So do I. I'm trying to be supportive, but the books aren't doing as well as I'd thought they would and... well, at least there's something calming about deserts and mountains, you know?”

“I do,” Everett said, looking at his own horizon, the towering gray spires of concrete and glass, the dead valleys of streets named by those long since forgot. “What's he looking for now?”

“A group of people called the Devinii,” Rose was silent for a long time, and Everett realized he' wasn't breathing. He forced himself to, long slow breaths, in and out, in and out, his eyes open as the towers around him looked like outstretched fingers.

“W-what name did you say?”

“Devinii. Have you heard of them?”

That was a code; she knew about him even if she didn't know how old he was. She was asking if they were real, if he knew them to be more than a fable. He nodded, took another breath.

“I have,” he answered, hearing her breath catch in her throat. “Your husband is ambitious – I don't think there'd be much left of them, though. They predate Surcess by several thousand years.”

“Thousand?” Rose sounded surprised. “Thousand? How old are they?”

“About as old as my people,” Everett answered, and he heard her sit down, heard her take a deep breath. He'd never told her about his people, the culture they'd built, the one he'd been powerless to stop from being destroyed. No one could understand those horrors except the others that had been there, the handful of ones that had been asked to remember, and of those few he trusted even less.

“This is what I give you,” the Annanuki had said. “Life until death.”

“Don't we already have that?” one of the others had asked.

Everett silently wished that he'd stabbed them both, then and there.

It was painful to think about how much had been lost, how sky had been bound to earth. He'd told her the tales instead, the old legends that his father and his mother had told him, tales echoed by whispering lwa. The Scarlet Angel. The Musician. The Purple Queen, the Blue Queen. The Weaver.

“Dad?” His daughter asked. “Dad, come back to me.”

“Sorry. Sorry, hun, I missed that last bit.” Everett held the cup of coffee steady in his hands, staring at it, forcing himself to study the minute details until the world around him was all that mattered, here and now, the cold seeping into his ass from the snow he was sitting in. He stood, dusting himself off with one hand, holding the cup steady in the other. He could see all the way to the horizon, knew every window along the street.

There were weeks, months, years where this happened, where memory drowned reason. He'd been told to remember and he never forgot and sometimes, rarely, he would act.

“Is the Weaver out walking again?” Rose asked. “I can call back next week.”

“No. No, this helps.”

“If you're sure.”

“I'm sure,” Everett said. He closed his eyes, took a single breath. He remembered the conversation, every breath from the moment Rose called, every word and pause and inflection. He opened his eyes, took a long gulp of coffee as he considered all of it and frowned. “What's wrong?”

“We're fighting over money.” He could hear the pain and embarrassment in Rose's voice; she did not like admitting this, but few people ever liked admitting weakness. “When the Verenes bought the island, they stopped John's peers from confirming his findings, and without confirmation...”

“People are branding him a crackpot,” Everett nodded understanding. “You mentioned that. How thrilled Jack is about it.”

“Jack always had a firmer understanding of that sort of thing than John, and he's done his best to keep the reality away from John, but...,” she trailed off, and he could imagine her biting her lip, closing her eyes, gathering her thoughts and her strength. He waited, patient with ages, patient with knowing. “John's beginning to feel the crunch. We had to sell the house, and that's why Mercy and I had to move out here.”

“You sold the house.” Everett frowned, looking in the direction the house lay. Even he couldn't see it – the earth curved long before he might have, and there were cities in the way, but he still grimaced as he remembered every room and imperfection, the backyard and the garden, the ivy creeping up the side, the mint that grew along the back fences. “I loved that house.”

“So did I.”

“Let me buy it back.”

“Dad...,” Rose let the title hang between them, her tone uncertain. She didn't want to ask and struggled with the idea of him doing this, the hesitation in her voice caused by yearning for her old home and wanting to stand on her own.

She loved that house, he knew. They both did. To go from the bedlam and squalor of her childhood to those brick walls had been an impossible dream, and the two of them had made it their home together. Her harsh teen years, rebellion made worse by the pains of her childhood and the trauma he'd suffered in that decade, but they walked one another through it, walked one another past it.

He left it to her and John when he'd moved to Toronto. He'd always been a creature of cities, and he'd been glad when humanity had rediscovered them – living in Damascus, in Carthage, in al Hambra, in Ghana, in Barcelona, in Toronto. He loved the lights, the whispers, the collective breathing of hundreds of human souls, the thrum of their heartbeats, the joy of architecture.

“You could have come to me,” Everett said. “You can always come to me. You know that, right?”

“Yes, I do, but John doesn't,” Rose said, her voice very quiet. Everyone carried secrets, some shared and some not. Everett had shared his with Rose because he'd had to, but both of them had decided that John could never know – his obsession with the past would have broken against the length of Everett's life, and they both knew it. “He likes you, but he doesn't know... he doesn't like asking for help.”

“No one is an island, Rose,” Everett said, the words as gentle as he could make them. “We're all connected. Everyone accomplishes what they can depending on who they are and where they're from, the relationships they build in and of the world.”

And, he didn't need to add, he could afford it. He could afford almost anything, his riches past through the ages. He'd learned to diversify his holdings after Carthage was sacked, the lesson that no empire was eternal one he'd learned slowly, but once he had it he'd divided his wealth among different nations, different kingdoms, different places.

When the idea of inventing wealth had finally occurred to the modern world he'd been an early buyer, and he was now easily in the one percent of the one percent, rich in a way that stripped the word of essential meaning. He owned the building he lived in, owned the seven blocks around it, ran a coffee shop because he enjoyed coffee and giving night people a place to go. He had grandfathered his investments into other investments, spending a year in every decade learning the ins-and-outs of different economic models.

It was better, he had found, to be wealthy than to be poor, and better to be free than to be a slave.

He frowned, remembering the early days of America, the rise of the Three Sisters, the... he blinked, let his thoughts settle.

Deep breath, he thought. Here and now.

He loved his adopted daughter. He liked John. He enjoyed his granddaughter, little Mercedes. She called him uncle and John thought Everett was Rose's adopted brother. He looked at the stars trying to break through the smog cover and smiled, finishing the last of the coffee.

Sometimes, Everett thought, John could be more a child than Mercedes.

“Who'd you sell the house to?” he asked.

“A real estate firm for a down payment.”

“I'm going to buy it back and put it in Mercy's name as part of a trust,” Everett said, his tone allowing no argument. “Keep the money you got from it. Are you comfortable?”

“Me? Yes. Of course. This place is, well, it's lovely.” But it isn't home, she thought, and he could hear those words in the slim shaking of her voice. “What do I tell John about the house?”

“Anything you like,” Everett said, letting her know that he'd support her. “Next issue is your finances. You want to handle this on your own, and I get that. The Verenes are why you can't get grant money?”

“I guess. I mean, yes, kind of.”

“Then call the Verenes,” Everett said. “You got on well with Solaina, I seem to recall, and Robert seemed to get on well with John. If they're so interested in Surcess, let them have it – but get them to pay John for what he found, and get them interested in what he's currently looking for.”

“You think they'd be interested?” Rose asked, her tone light.

“If they're interested in Surcess, they might be interested in the Devinii,” Everett shrugged, letting the motion flavor his voice – she would not see the motion, but she would know that he'd done it. “Call them. Find out.”

“Okay,” Rose said, and she sounded so much more like herself.

“Do you have a contact number?”

“Yes, Dad, from Solaina.” Rose paused, and he could hear her licking her lips, swallowing. Her voice dropped, became quieter, more frightened. “Do you remember her?”

“I do,” Everett answered. “From when the two of you were kids.”

“We were in our teens,” Rose's voice turned warm, her recrimination playful. She was fond of those memories despite their horror, but the ability of adults to swim in their childish nostalgia had always amazed Everett, always left him wondering if his own memories were so tinted. He shook his head. Here. Now.

“Barely,” Everett said, his eyes rolling. He remembered young Rose, rags and bones, her eyes haunted and smoky, and Solaina's anger and flashing sword. “Give her a call. Play on history and see if there's anything there.”

“I'll do it as soon as I get off the phone.”

“You might want to have Jack plant the idea in your husband's head.”

“What?” Rose asked, surprised by the suggestion. “Why?”

“Because your husband, much as I love him, can be a bit of an idiot,” Everett said, smiling as he leaned against a wall, his eyes drifting over the city spires. “He might not listen to you, and he won't listen to me, but a suggestion from Jack...?”

“Yeah, okay.” He could hear her grin. “Love you, Dad.”

“Love you, too,” Everett said. He let the words hang between them, enjoying a comfortable electric silence, breaking it only to ask, “Is Mercy around?”

“She's out in the orchard,” Rose answered. “The property we're on has an orange field. She spends her days reading, playing, or stealing oranges to eat.”

“Aright, well, let her know her Uncle said 'hi.'”

He could hear Rose shifting her weight, making herself more comfortable, hear the way her breathing changed. Rose understood why they told Mercy the things they did, understood why they kept the secret from the eight-year-old girl – children traded secrets for candy, and Mercy might never know the full depth of Everett's life, might never know that he could live forever.

Other children in the past had traded secrets bigger than that. Everett had seen it happen, had even had it happen to him. He'd had to flee Spain, cross a sea and flee further to escape the fires of Inquisition and the persecution of zealots. He'd ended up in chains, ended up blistered and shattered across an ocean, ended up in-

“Dad?” Rose asked. He took a deep breath. Here, he thought, now.

“Sorry, lost in thought again.”

“Hopefully, it's a little more pleasant.”

“It is,” Everett lied. She knew that he had seen and been and done many things, and often it was the bad memories that dominated. She'd seen him when- he smiled, shook his head, laughed. “Iataad taohif aamgae.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He asked her to call him when it was done, to let him know how things are and if there might be anything else that he could do to help. She said that she would and that she loved him and then she hung up and he stayed there for minutes afterward, staring down at a single girl staring back up at him.

She was young, this girl, pale as snow, with raven hair and emerald eyes. Her facial structure was that of someone that wasn't human trying to be – lacking the small ticks that came from growth, the small changes evolution brought to structure and culture brought to stance. She was looking at him and she nodded, smiling, turned and vanished into the night.

There were powers older than he was and too large to easily comprehend. He'd seen some of them in the past, been there when they'd done their workings and changed the world. It made him shudder in a way the cold never could, to know that such powers were moving through the world again, were gathering, that one of them might think that the conversation he had just had was important enough to watch so closely.

He replayed the conversation in his head once more, all of it from beginning to end, felt something that he'd missed when he'd muttered the most ancient of prophecies: iataad taohif aamgae.

In the long dead language of the Devinii, it meant none may escape.

*

So, this is part of a story that runs parallel to the first book in the Legend of Mercedes Ketch. I’m going to post the whole of that story here over the next few months; if you’re interested in reading the book that this is from, you can do so by going here: https://www.amazon.com/Legend-Mercedes-Ketch-Fathers-Daughter-ebook/dp/B00CRJ14RA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1485244368&sr=8-1&keywords=legend+of+mercedes+ketch 

In the meantime, if you like this, share it. Spread the word. Writer needs story to be read, has more story to tell.